He had really been a good deal less injured than his rescuer; for,
though a falling rafter had struck him down as he turned to leave the
hut, this very accident had given him the benefit of such air as there
had been in the cabin. Here and there he had been slightly burned, but
he had not been forced to inhale smoke.
Wound in leg and all, the doctor had considered him out of danger long
before he felt sure of Don Manuel.
The young Spaniard lay several days with his life despaired of. The most
unremitting nursing on the part of his cousin alone pulled him through.
She would not give up; would not let his life slip away. And, in the
end, she had won her hard fight. Don Manuel, too, was on the road to
recovery.
While her cousin had been at the worst, Valencia Valdes saw the wounded
Coloradoan only for a minute of two each day; but, with Pesquiera's
recovery, she began to divide her time more equitably.
"I've been wishing I was the bad case," Dick told her whimsically when
she came in to see him. "I'll bet I have a relapse so the head nurse
won't always be in the other sick room."
"Manuel is my cousin, and he has been very, very ill," she answered in
her low, sweet voice, the color in her olive cheeks renewed at his
words.
The eyes of the Anglo-Saxon grew grave.
"How is Don Manuel to-night?"
"Better.
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